


Do Unto Others

by orphan_account



Series: Glass Cases [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Burnplay, Chastity Device, Collars, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Diapers, Dildos, Dom Sherlock, Drugged Sex, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Electricity, Enemas, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Figging, Fingerfucking, Flogging, Force-Feeding, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machines, Gags, Gang Rape, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Ice Play, Infantilism, Knifeplay, Lace, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Pegging, Prostate Massage, Sexual Slavery, Sherlock in Heels, Stockholm Syndrome, Strap-Ons, Sub Irene, Sub John, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, Watersports, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Sherlock Holmes is an engineer and chemist. Last year, he kidnapped Irene Adler. Last month, he kidnapped John Watson. Irene and John are now his sex slaves.</p><p>One Friday morning, Sherlock prepares his toys before leaving for work.</p><p>He does not make it back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuck Toys and Sex Toys

Irene is lying on the bondage table, restrained, wearing a pink bra and nothing else.

Sherlock is still wearing the long-sleeved, white dress shirt and navy blue suit trousers that he wore to work earlier that day. He is barefoot. He's inserting a small silicone dildo into Irene's lubricated vagina. The dildo is a Drippy Dragon, so named because it’s supposedly shaped like a dragon’s cock. Sherlock pushes the entire length of 5.5 inches, slowing down as he forces the widest part -- 2.1 inches in diameter -- into Irene.

Protruding from the base of the dildo is a soft, thin tube, connected to a large syringe filled with lube. Sherlock presses the syringe’s plunger, which sends the lube through the tube, into the dildo, and out of a tiny hole at the tip. Irene feels the lube filling her, as she watches the emptying syringe. She notices the lube is whitish, like come.

Once all the lube is inside Irene, Sherlock detaches the tube from the dildo. Then, he takes a chastity belt from a drawer under the table. He secures it around her waist and over her holes, trapping the dildo inside her. He then gives her a fast-acting sedative pill. When Irene loses consciousness, Sherlock moves her to her cell.

Irene spends all of the next day inside her glass prison, feeling full.

Later, she finds herself in the loo when she wakes from being drugged. There, Sherlock removes the dildo and lets her use the toilet. When she is finished, Sherlock leads her by a leash, into the sex room and onto the bondage table. He ties her down.

He lubricates her pussy, and then pushes a medium Drippy Dragon into it. It is 7 inches long, and 2.6 inches in diameter at the widest part. Then Sherlock goes through the same ritual as the previous night, with the additional lube, the chastity belt and the sedative.

The following night, Irene recognises the pattern as soon as it begins. She correctly anticipates that Sherlock is moving her up to a large dildo. She wonders how many Drippy Dragon sizes there are. At least, the lube helps. This time, she takes in 8.25 inches. The maximum diameter is 3.2 inches.

When Irene wakes up the next morning, she is already tied down on the table. She is naked and supine, with her arms and legs spread apart, so her body is forming an X. Her chastity belt is off, and it appears that S has already removed the dildo from her pussy. Her hole feels loose.

There is a rectangular pillow across Irene’s stomach, and she is not alone in the room.

A shirtless John is standing right beside the table, facing it. His feet are flat on the floor, and his torso is bent forwards, resting on the pillow. He is still unconscious. His arms are dangling down the other side of the table.

Irene lifts her head and shoulders, and leans to the left. She sees that John’s ankles are tied with ropes, several feet long, to the legs of the table. She then leans to the right, and sees that John’s wrists are bound, too. He won't be able to straighten himself to a standing position. She hopes her stomach muscles won’t cramp from John’s weight.

John stirs out of medicated sleep.

With spot-on timing, Sherlock enters the room. “Good morning,” he greets, as he approaches the table. He is wrapped in a grey silk dressing gown. In his hand is an extra-large Drippy Dragon, connected to a tube and syringe.

Irene’s eyes widen.

“Don’t worry, I think you’re prepared enough for this,” Sherlock assures. “And I've lubricated you. Can you feel it?”

Irene nods, eyes still wide.

John is testing his restraints. He can lift his torso a few inches, so as not to put his weight on Irene, but he cannot move much more than that. When he turns his head and sees the enormous thing that S is holding, his mouth falls open.

Sherlock stands on Irene’s right side. He touches Irene’s cunt with two fingertips, testing the slickness. “You've been doing well, my dear,” he praises. He positions the dildo at Irene’s entrance.

It is 9.75 inches long, and up to 4 inches in diameter.

Sherlock pushes the dildo past Irene's labia. From the tip, the dildo widens to more than two inches, and then narrows slightly. Irene gasps. Sherlock pauses. “You have the first third. Good girl.”

John sees the pillow rising and falling beneath him, as Irene takes deep breaths.

Sherlock presses the syringe’s plunger, releasing some of the lube. Then he proceeds with pushing the rest of the dildo into Irene. The widest part is approaching her entrance.

She cries out.

“Yes, that’s it, my darling. Take it for me.” Sherlock keeps going. “Almost there,” he encourages. He observes Irene’s folds, as they engulf the dildo’s maximum circumference of 11.25 inches. He makes her take the last couple of inches, and then the base of the dildo reaches her crotch.

John’s breathing has become quick and shallow.

Sherlock presses the plunger until the syringe is empty of its contents. “How do you feel?” He asks Irene.

“Nnnggh, really full, sir.”

“You’re so good for me,” Sherlock says, as he disconnects the tube from the base of the dildo. He walks towards the end of the table where Irene's head is, and then kisses her, sucking her tongue and licking her teeth.

Irene moans into his mouth. S rarely kisses on the lips.

Sherlock moans into her mouth, too. After about a minute, he pulls away. “Do you know why I've been preparing you?”

“N-No, sir.” Irene is suddenly filled with dread at the idea of being penetrated by something even larger.

“Oh, no, have no fear. You’ll be able to take it, after this,” Sherlock gestures towards her groin. “I’m sure of it.” He smiles. “It is only my hand.”

Irene has never been fisted before.

“We’ll do it tonight, when I get home from work. It's going to be a great weekend.”

S’s cheerful tone does not allay Irene’s anxiousness one bit.

“Now, John,” Sherlock turns to the restrained man. “Last week, you talked about how you haven’t been able to take a piss on your own, without my watching over you. Well, do you know what you’re wearing now?”

John is naked except for latex shorts. There are contraptions in the shorts. John shakes his head.

“Oh, come on, try and describe them to me. Your front first.” Sherlock keeps his tone casual.

“My… My penis seems to be in a sheath,” John answers.

“Yes,” Sherlock nods. “And the back?”

“There’s a plug up my arse.”

“Ah, but that’s not all.” Sherlock smiles.

It makes John uneasy.

“If you pump your hips forwards and backwards a little, as though you’re humping the table, you’ll feel a pouch swaying, hanging from your shorts. Go on, move.”

John does as he is told. Then, he nods. “I feel it, sir.”

“At the tip of the sheath, there’s a tube. It’ll receive your urine, and store it in the pouch,” Sherlock explains. “So feel free to urinate at any point during the day.”

John waits for some sort of terrible catch.

“But that’s still not all,” Sherlock adds.

I knew it, John thinks.

“Do you know that I've been giving you enemas while you’re sedated?” Sherlock asks.

“I… Yes, sir, I've noticed.” John wasn't sure at first, but eventually he figured out why he would sometimes wake up feeling a bit different.

“That thing up your arse is a nozzle. It’ll give you an enema. It’s going to suck up the liquid from the pouch.”

“Oh my god.” John doesn't realise he is saying this aloud.

“You know that urine is sterile, don’t you?”

John is too stunned to answer.

“All right, I've got to get ready for work. I will see you both later. Have a nice day.” Sherlock winks as he exits.


	2. Keeping an Appointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes meets Jim Moriarty.

It is an overcast day in June, and Sherlock is wearing his Belstaff trench coat. Under the coat is his standard workday outfit -- suit jacket and trousers (today: dark olive), long-sleeved dress shirt (today: off-white), and leather shoes (today: deep burgundy).

He is driving his grey Vauxhall Corsa, a company car, to his last appointment of the day. He pulls into a dirt car park at a community recreation centre that's under construction. He takes four large, rolled sheets of paper from the back seat, then carries them into a small, makeshift office labelled “Construction Manager”.

“Hello, Sherlock,” a woman greets him when he opens the door. She is in a hard hat and overalls, sitting behind a desk. Now that she has a visitor, she decides to take a break from poring over schedules. She leans back in her chair.

“Hello, Alice. I've brought the updated plans. Larger playground, smaller library, as requested.” Sherlock places the rolled sheets on her desk.

“Thanks. I hope the board doesn't think of any more changes.”

Sherlock only shams a smile in response. He doesn't mind having to redo plans, as long as appropriate adjustments are made to the corresponding budgets and timetables. For him, a problem arises only when people want him to complete a project with inadequate resources. Those people are idiots. “How are things? Going smoothly, I presume?”

“Yeah, we’re still on time. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be the one who breaks your record.” She laughs.

Sherlock has been working at C.D. Arthur Technologies for little more than a year. The recreation centre is his third major project. His first two were completed on time and within budget, even though he encountered typical setbacks, like materials not arriving punctually, the weather not permitting any work to proceed, or construction workers missing their shifts. “I've headed and finished only two projects so far,” Sherlock feigns modesty.

“All records start at the low numbers,” she replies. She knows that the young engineer already has a reputation for being intelligent, adaptive, and a perfectionist.

“Do you have an extra copy of the soils report?” Sherlock changes the subject. He wants to go home now.

“Sure, hang on. Jim?” She calls out through a window, to someone behind the office.

Moments later, an unassuming man comes in, wearing steel-toed boots, beige casual trousers, a light grey V-neck T-shirt, and a hard hat.

“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Jim Moriarty, my assistant,” Alice introduces the men, who give each other a perfunctory nod. She continues, addressing Jim, “Could you get me a copy of the soils report?”

“Of course,” Jim says as he slowly walks over to a file cabinet at the far end of the small room. He pulls out a folder and takes tiny steps back towards Sherlock. “So you’re Sherlock Holmes. Alice has told me all about you.” He holds himself close, shoulders slightly hunched.

Sherlock looks down at his watch. He doesn't feel the need to form even a professional relationship with Jim, because he already deals with Alice directly.

Jim hands the report over to Sherlock, but drops it before the engineer can grab it. “Sorry! Sorry!” Jim bends to pick it up off the floor, and finally gives it to Sherlock.

“Thank you, Alice. I’ll be off now.” Sherlock leaves, folder in hand.

“See you, Sherlock,” Alice says.

“It was nice to meet you,” Jim sends the words out the door just before it closes behind Sherlock.

Outside, Sherlock approaches his car from the front. He gets in, sits in the driver’s seat, and buckles his seat belt. He doesn't see the hand that springs from behind his seat, injecting something into his neck. Sherlock's vision blurs, and his head feels heavy. He feels his muscles weakening. He drops the folder between his feet, and quickly passes out.


	3. High Heels and a Lace Bra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is kidnapped and played with.

Sherlock wakes up naked, blindfolded, and tied down on a wooden table.

Well, this is ironic, he thinks.

He is lying on his back. Ropes are tied around his ankles, pulling his legs wide apart and upwards. His legs are bent slightly at the knees, but for the most part they’re forming a vertical V shape. Sherlock can feel that his arse is at the edge of the table.

His arms are splayed straight out from his body, perpendicular to his torso. His wrists are tied. His shoulders are at the edge of the table, and there is nothing supporting his head.

Sherlock can’t hear or smell anything distinctive. Based on the temperature, he assumes he’s indoors.

Soon, he hears footsteps. There must be more than one person approaching, because there are footsteps coming from both his right and left sides. He jolts in surprise when someone breathes into his ear and whispers, “Ashtray.” It is a soft utterance, and Sherlock probably won’t be able to identify the whisperer by voice.

Sherlock feels a sharp, concentrated burn in a tiny area at the back of his right thigh. He screams reflexively. Suddenly, there’s another small burn at his stomach, just below the left side of his ribcage. A third burn immediately follows, on his right upper arm. He does not hold back his yelps and growls. “Stop!” He tries to thrash against his restraints. He alternates between lifting his head up and dropping it down, dangling it by the side of the table.

Nothing happens for a minute, and Sherlock stops struggling. His breathing slows back to normal. He recalls the whispered word, and he realises the burns were from cigarettes.

Then, the word “bite” is whispered into his ear. He thinks it’s the same whisperer as before. He clenches his fists in preparation.

Someone bites him on his left calf, his right arse cheek, his right nipple, his left hand, and the right side of his neck. He grunts and groans. Five people. He counts five people. The bites weren't simultaneous, but they happened close enough to each other that they had to have been done by different people.

Soon after the mouths withdraw, another word is whispered into his ear, “Collar.” And Sherlock feels a leather collar being secured around his neck. It must be attached to a leash, because then Sherlock’s neck and head are forcibly yanked upwards.

When they let go of the leash, Sherlock resumes holding his head horizontally. He unclenches his fists. Then he hears, softly, barely a whisper, “Dildo.”

Here they go, Sherlock thinks, they’re going to rape him now. His whole body tenses, but then he figures it’ll be easier for him if he relaxes, so he forces himself to do so.

He feels something round and solid at his entrance. He says, “No, please, don’t.” The only response he gets is a push of the dildo past his pucker. He isn't lubricated, but the dildo is. It’s small, no wider than lipstick. Sherlock is quietly thankful for the mercy.

They pump the dildo in and out of him a few times. It is short, less than four inches. Then, they pull it out and replace it with a slightly thicker, slightly longer one. Once, they angle the dildo upwards, and it hits Sherlock’s prostate. He moans, then tries pleading again. “Stop this, please.” He is breathing more quickly now.

They withdraw the dildo, and then replace it with an even bigger one.

Sherlock remembers Irene. He worries, asking himself what would happen if these people never let him go. Would Irene and John die of dehydration in the sex room, with toys up their holes? Then, it occurs to Sherlock that he cannot identify his kidnappers. Maybe this means they plan to let him go. He hangs on to the hope.

The dildo doesn't stop fucking Sherlock's arse, even as the whisperer says into his ear, “Electricity.”

Sherlock feels a spark at his left nipple. The spark travels across his chest to the right nipple. They must be holding a violet wand. The spark disappears, and then re-emerges at his limp cock. The voltage is low, and the almost-tickling, mildly prickling sensation starts to get him hard. “No, please stop,” he repeats. His entire body tingles. He hears chuckles around him.

As the wand travels over his crotch area, the dildo maintains its constant fucking. When they change the angle, he shivers. “Uggghhh, no, please stop this, I don’t want this.” He needs to voice his disapproval, especially now that his body is working against his withholding of consent.

Honestly, though, none of this is hurting him to the point of trauma. So far. There was a period of his life when he whored himself for drugs for three years. And he is not unfamiliar with BDSM culture, having played both dominant and submissive roles. He will survive this, he tells himself.

They stop moving the dildo, but leave it inside him. The violet wand is taken away. Sherlock gulps air. “Flogger,” the whisperer says into his ear. All Sherlock can tell about the whisperer is that he’s a man.

Sherlock braces himself for a hit. They strike him at the back of his left thigh, and then at the back of his right. The tails of the flogger are made of braided leather, and they sting. Sherlock hisses. The flogger has plenty of tails, and Sherlock hears a thud every time his thigh is stricken. His breathing turns ragged, as his captors beat his thighs over and over.

“Please, enough,” Sherlock says, his voice raspy. They've hit him about two dozen times. The beating has caused rows and rows of welts to rise at the backs of his thighs. He can feel his femoral arteries throbbing.

They stop flogging him, but only so they can fuck his arse again with the dildo. They angle it precisely to hit his prostate. He whimpers. They pull the dildo out of him, and then strike his arse a few times. “No, no,” he says in a small voice, as if he were only having a bad dream. He shakes his head. He is getting tired of holding it up.

Someone holds it for him, and he almost feels relief, except his thighs and arse are smarting. He then hears another whispered word, “Gag.” Apparently, they’re holding his head up only because they’re putting a ball gag in his mouth.

“Heels,” Sherlock hears next, and he feels shoes being fitted onto his raised feet. He wonders what he must look like, with his erect cock jutting upwards to his belly. Very much like a fuck toy, probably. “Ice,” immediately comes the next word, and he feels ice cubes sliding against his skin. He jerks at the contact, but he is unable to shake them off. There are two ice cubes moving across his abdomen, two circling his nipples, and one travelling up and down each arm. The coldness contrasts with the warmth at his thighs and arse. He groans around the gag. Saliva drips out of his mouth. He drops his head backwards.

He feels a tube of ice entering his hole. He yells, muffled by the gag. The cylinder of ice is pumped in and out of him, while the cubes continue to roam over his upper body. He moves his hips from side to side, but his range is limited, and the movement doesn't impede the insertion of the ice tube. Sherlock grunts nearly continuously.

They fuck him with the ice tube until his body heat melts it, and it becomes too small. The cubes eventually melt into ice chips, too. Sherlock's rim aches, akin to a cold burn. Water drips out of his anus, and his arms and torso are wet. He wonders when this ordeal will end. Blood is beginning to collect inside his head, so he lifts it, but he is truly getting rather tired.

“Jewellery,” the whisperer says into his ear, and a ring is pushed onto his right ring finger.

“Knife” quickly follows, and it dawns on Sherlock that the words he’s been hearing are in alphabetical order.

This means they’re almost halfway through. He will survive this, he tells himself again.

He feels a sharp pain in the middle of his chest. He shouts, as much as he can with the gag in his mouth. They have cut his chest with a knife. The wound is diagonal, long but shallow.

He yells when they cut him again, this time between his left elbow and wrist. The break in his skin is shorter but deeper. He pants. They lacerate his skin below the right side of his ribcage, and he grunts, but with little strength behind it. Blood leaks out of his three gashes.

Then, the narrow, bloody knife is inserted into his anus. Sherlock gasps. With much effort, he keeps himself perfectly still.

They fuck him with the knife, slowly. They carefully avoid tearing him.

The gentleness in executing the threatening possibility makes Sherlock’s cock stiffen completely.

He hears a couple of moans, from a few feet to his right. They sound like they're coming from one woman and one man.

Sherlock's cock twitches. He hears a man chuckling to his left.

The knife is still fucking him. Pre-come drips from his slit.

Then, the knife is pulled out. Sherlock exhales deeply in relief. He hears the word “lace” whispered in his ear, and feels a lace garment being placed on his chest. There are hands lifting his shoulders, and fastening the garment at his back. The hands feel like they belong to females. When the hands let go, Sherlock realises he’s wearing a lace bra. He must look like a veritable whore now.

The lace bra absorbs the blood from his knife wound. It sticks to his chest.

“Machine,” the whisperer says into his ear, and Sherlock hears something being dragged closer to his arse. When the dragging noise stops, he feels something poised at his entrance. Then, he hears a mechanical sound, and simultaneously feels a dildo pushing into him. The dildo pulls out of him and pushes back in at regular intervals.

Sherlock hears applause around him. Someone whistles. And then he hears footsteps, walking away, until there is no more movement or sound, apart from the thrusting and thrumming of the fucking machine. He assumes his abductors have left him for the night.

After a few minutes, Sherlock drops his head. Eventually he falls asleep, with his cock still hard. He cannot come from anal stimulation alone. He wakes up several times during the night; the machine is still steadily battering his arse. He knows he will feel bruised for days, maybe weeks.


	4. Thirteen Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock suffers through the second half of the alphabet.

Sherlock is woken up by the removal of the dildo. He is dizzy, and his head feels very heavy. He lifts it to help his blood circulate.

His arse feels raw. His cock is mostly flaccid.

The word “nipple” is whispered into his ear. He feels clamps being attached to his nipples, inside the lace bra, which is now decorated with his dried blood. He cries out from the clamps' pressure, and from his whole body’s discomfort. He mewls around his gag.

When he acclimatises to the clamps, his cries turn into sobs. Then, the whisperer says, “Orgasm.”

Sherlock hears a low, buzzing sound, and then feels a vibration against his cock. He begins to get hard again. He shakes his head and tries to say no, but his protests are trapped in his throat. Only gibberish sounds make it past the ball between his lips.

Someone runs a finger up and down the backs of his thighs, pressing down on his flogging welts. The finger traces a circle around his cigarette burn, but doesn’t touch it.

Someone else licks the knife wound on the right side of his belly, and another licks the one at his left arm.

Someone tugs gently at the clamps under his bra. All the while, he feels the vibration moving up and down his shaft.

Sherlock feels his head swaying. He becomes awash in sensations. He softly whines.

The buzzing gets louder, and the vibration is stronger against his cock. Elsewhere on his body, Sherlock feels the persistent but measured touches of fingers and tongues. His attention is drawn from his cock, to his welts and his knife wounds, and then back. He starts to drown in waves of sensation originating from various points on his body, waves occasionally interrupted by hard yet pleasant pulls on his nipples.

The vibration intensity increases once more, and Sherlock feels himself getting wound up. He grumbles around his gag. The vibrator is then held stationary at his cockhead.

A dildo is pushed into his arse, angled upwards to brush his prostate. It is equally harsh and pleasurable, and Sherlock shudders as he comes all over his stomach.

After Sherlock is spent, all tongues and hands withdraw. The vibration stops, and the dildo is pulled out. The clamps stay. Sherlock attempts to catch his breath. Before he can do so, he hears the next word, “Pegging.”

Sherlock shakes his head. He needs a moment to recover. He vocally protests, but all that comes out of him are broken vowels and random consonants.

His rapists ignore his stuttering cries. A strap-on dildo enters him and starts pumping.

Sherlock’s arse is sore. Tears fall from his eyes.

The pumping doesn’t stop, but someone removes the ball gag from his mouth. Sherlock openly wails. The whisperer blows air into his ear, and Sherlock quiets down to listen to the next word, “Queening.”

The strap-on dildo invades and retreats relentlessly, while a woman positions her crotch over Sherlock’s face. She is standing, with her thighs on either side of Sherlock’s head. She is facing Sherlock’s body. She grinds her naked cunt over his mouth. His nose is buried between her arse cheeks.

Someone -- possibly the woman sitting on his face -- tugs at Sherlock’s nipple clamps. He groans. Then, someone -- possibly the same woman -- pulls his hair upwards with two hands. It forces his face deeper into the crotch of the woman queening him.

A particularly forceful thrust into his arse makes him sob.

His head is swiftly pulled downwards, and he hears the woman above him shouting angrily, “Tongue!” And then his head is roughly pulled back upwards by the hair. He obeys the command, sticking out his tongue to lick at the wet pussy on his mouth.

The strap-on dildo continues pounding into Sherlock’s swollen arse. He is light-headed and exhausted, but he keeps working his tongue, fucking the woman’s hole and sucking her clit, hoping that they’ll move on to the next letter. He badly wants P to end. He whimpers at every push of the dildo.

An eternity later, the woman begins riding his face more energetically. The pulls at his hair are becoming more erratic. She must be close. Sherlock sucks harder, moans louder, until the woman squirts into his mouth and over his chin.

She lets go of Sherlock’s hair, and gingerly removes herself from his face. Sherlock drops his head backwards, his breathing a staccato. Her come drips down his face and neck.

The dildo pulls out, and Sherlock heaves a sigh. He is so relieved that he weeps.

“Aww, don’t cry, baby.” The clear, female voice surprises him. He doesn’t recognise the voice as someone he knows. It also doesn't sound like the same woman who has just fucked his face. “Mummy’s here to take care of you.” The voice is coming from somewhere near. The woman must be standing right next to the table.

Someone holds Sherlock’s head up, and forces a dummy past his lips. The female voice beside the table says, “Drink your milk, baby boy. Or Mummy’s going to be mad.” Sherlock sucks on the dummy, which turns out to be a teat on a feeding bottle.

“Regression,” the whisperer says into his ear.

Sherlock feels his arse being lifted a few inches from the table. Some sort of pad is being placed under him, and then they’re putting his arse back down. Then, they are fastening the pad over his groin, around his waist. They’re making him wear a nappy.

The accumulation of activities from A to R catches up to Sherlock, and he feels utterly used. He continues to suck on the teat, gulping his milk. His arse feels thoroughly abused, there is a dull pain at the backs of his thighs, he is wearing heels and a bra, the clamps are still pinching his nipples, there is a collar around his neck, and now he’s wearing a nappy. He feels physically and emotionally drained, and he starts to cry again.

“Oh no, baby, don’t cry. Be a good boy, now. You want to be good for Mummy, don’t you?”

Sherlock calms himself. The voice praises, “There, such a good little baby.”

When Sherlock finishes the bottle, they give him another one. “Come on, little darling, drink more milk. It’s good for you.”

Sherlock hears sniggers in the background. Tears well up in his eyes again, from embarrassment, but he prevents himself from crying.

They make him suck two more bottles full of milk, then the female voice asks, “Is baby ready to wee?”

So that’s what this letter is about, Sherlock thinks. They want him to pee in the nappy. He nods.

“Good,” the voice says, “but not yet. Just one more bottle.” Sherlock feels a teat being pushed past his lips again. He suckles, imagining how pitiful he must look like to these strangers, five of them at least. He wonders if he has met any of them before, perhaps in more respectable circumstances, or maybe during his drug-addled past. When he finishes the milk, he hesitantly says, “I’m…”

“What is it, baby?”

“I’m ready... to pee.”

“Good boy. Now what do you call me?”

Oh god. “Mummy. I’m ready to pee, Mummy.”

One female and two male voices laugh in the background.

“Okay, baby, you can go wee in your nappy now.”

And Sherlock does, to the sound of jeering. He wants to curl under a blanket and hide there for a year.

“Is baby boy finished?” the female voice asks, and Sherlock nods.

They -- the ominous, anonymous they -- remove the soiled nappy. Sherlock isn’t sure which is more humiliating -- pissing in it or having his crotch exposed to these people.

Then, the whisperer says into his ear, “Semen.”

Sherlock feels large, male hands parting his arse cheeks, and then a cock starts sliding into him. “No,” Sherlock says. It’s the first time they’re not using an object to penetrate him, and it feels like an entirely new kind of violation.

The hands holding his arse are gripping him tightly, and Sherlock feels like bruises will bloom on his cheeks in the shape of fingers. The man whose cock is inside him is thrusting eagerly, and Sherlock curls his hands into fists, for lack of something to hang onto. All he can do is lay still and take the fucking. The man grunts as he starts to push more vigorously into Sherlock’s hole. “Enough, please,” Sherlock begs, but the man doesn’t heed the words.

The man thrusts at a punishing pace, and tears escape from Sherlock’s eyes. His tears have been wetting his blindfold, but they haven’t soaked through all the layers of fabric. Sherlock hears himself sob. He hears the man’s skin slapping against his own. He hears the man growl, and then he feels semen shooting into him. The man rocks his hips as he empties himself into Sherlock, and then he pulls his cock out. Semen spills out of Sherlock’s hole.

“Throat,” Jim whispers into Sherlock’s ear. He is careful not to speak in his normal vocal register. Then, for the first time, he touches his victim. He holds Sherlock’s face in both hands, and then bends Sherlock’s head downwards. Then he moves one hand to his cock, and guides it into Sherlock’s mouth.

Jim is still wearing the same shirt as yesterday. He is free of trousers, pants, and all other encumbrances. His boots and his pile of clothes are sitting on a chair nearby.

Sherlock tastes salty sweat on the limp cock. Fuck, he’s going to have to work for this.

Jim keeps his hands on Sherlock’s face. He rolls his hips, feeling himself inside the genius engineer’s mouth. He moans. He drums his fingers on Sherlock’s cheeks, hoping the restrained man would correctly interpret the instruction.

Sherlock understands the order. He starts licking and sucking the cock. He flicks his tongue around the tip, he licks the length of the member, and he hollows his cheeks around it. He feels the cock hardening in his mouth.

When his cock is firm enough, Jim starts to thrust. He looks down at Sherlock’s neck, watching his shaft pushing in and pulling out of Sherlock’s throat. It’s empowering. Several times, he pushes as far in as he can go, and then holds the position. He touches Sherlock’s neck, feeling his cock under the skin. The tip of his cock reaches Sherlock's collar. Jim ignores Sherlock’s weak writhing and choking.

When he’s had enough fun watching himself impale Sherlock’s throat, Jim speeds up his thrusts. His bollocks bump into Sherlock’s nose, over and over. He buries himself deep in the bound man’s throat, pumping hard and fast for friction, and then he brutally plunges and holds his final pose. He spurts his come down Sherlock’s oesophagus, while Sherlock chokes. Then, Jim pulls his cock out.

Sherlock swallows what he can. The rest of the fluid drips out of his lips. He feels like there is nothing more of himself left. How are they not done with the alphabet yet?

There is no activity for a few minutes, and at first, Sherlock is grateful for the respite. But as the seconds go by, he becomes increasingly worried about what will happen next. He doesn’t want to guess what other sick pursuits his kidnappers could be preparing for.

“Urine,” Jim whispers, and someone is climbing onto the table. It is a woman. She is sitting on Sherlock’s stomach. Then, she pisses. When her urine trickles over the knife wounds and the cigarette burn on Sherlock’s torso, he hisses at the mild sting.

Sherlock feels someone else pissing on his welts. It must be a man, firing liquid waste at him from a penis. The man's urine hits the cigarette burn at Sherlock’s thigh, making the captive jerk.

The woman climbs off the table. Jim says “vibrator” softly into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shakes his head, but it is no use. They are inserting a vibrator into his arse. It is short and curved. When they turn it on, Sherlock realises it’s a prostate massager. “Nnggghhh,” he squirms. He hears laughter. He can’t move, can’t escape the insistent vibration at his gland. He sweats. Post-ejaculation (and post-repeated-unforgiving-penetration), the stimulation is painful.

There are hands lifting his shoulders, and unclasping his bra. The bra and the nipple clamps are taken away. Sherlock feels as though there are scores of pins and needles poking at his nipples, as blood rushes back into them.

“Wax,” Jim whispers, and Sherlock feels drops of hot liquid on his right nipple. He shrieks. Hot droplets fall onto his left nipple, too, and he yelps again.

The prostate massager is still whirring inside him.

A stream of hot wax drips onto his front, from his collarbones to his navel. He grunts upon contact with the wax. His body is turned into a canvas. Melted wax is poured over most of his chest, belly and arms, making him hiss and whine. His skin burns from the liquid wax in the first few seconds of contact, but eventually, the congealed wax covers him like a layer of protection. Still, during those seconds of searing contact, Sherlock struggles fruitlessly against his bonds. He whimpers.

They don’t paint on his crotch or his face, and he is thankful. He resents feeling thankful.

They turn off the prostate massager, but they don’t pull it out of him.

They hold his mouth open, and pop a round tablet into it. Someone puts a hand over his mouth, so he can’t spit it out. Moments later, the hand comes off, and they’re pouring water into his mouth. He swallows the tablet.

“X,” Jim whispers.

Sherlock has tried ecstasy before. It makes him sensitive to light and sound, and lowers his inhibitions.

Nothing happens for a while. Sherlock figures his captors are waiting for the drug’s effects to kick in.

Ten minutes after making Sherlock ingest the tablet, Jim’s minions play Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie on a mobile phone. They turn the prostate massager back on.

Sherlock’s body quivers from the groin outwards.

He listens to the opera. Towards the end, he is hearing it as if the orchestra were inside the room with him. He’s still squirming, occasionally.

Five minutes after the opera ends, Sherlock is shivering practically continuously. He is blinking hard under his blindfold; each time, rainbow colours burst behind his eyelids like fireworks.

Jim’s underlings wait another half-hour. One of them goes to the loo, two go for a fag, and two stick around, watching Sherlock while stroking themselves. Jim simply sits on a chair, three feet from Sherlock’s head.

When the group reconvenes, Jim stands and steps towards Sherlock, taking his time, then he bends down and whispers, “You.”

Sherlock is unable to process the word. He knows it means him, but he forgets the word’s significance as the 25th in a perverted series.

A woman climbs onto the table, and sits on Sherlock’s wax-coated belly. She rubs her arse and pussy on Sherlock’s cock until it stiffens. It doesn’t take long. Then, she guides his cock into her arse. Sherlock moans.

Someone lifts his leg over the edge of the table, by Sherlock’s right hand. He guides Sherlock’s middle finger into his lubed arsehole.

Someone else lifts her leg over Sherlock’s left hand. She guides Sherlock’s index finger into her cunt.

Sherlock feels the three people fucking themselves on him. He moans again. He licks his lips. His mouth feels dry, but he is aware of fluids dripping down his fingers. The contrast unnerves him.

A fourth conspirator pulls the prostate massager out of Sherlock’s arse, then he spreads Sherlock’s arse cheeks and pushes his cock into the molested hole.

Sherlock is close to being overwhelmed. He arches his back, but it is difficult with someone sitting on him.

Finally, Jim feeds his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, just like the first time.

Sherlock can feel them all grinding and pumping. He lies on his back, pliant and murmuring nonsense. He listens to the opera, still playing in his head. When he hears the people around him moaning, he hums in response.

The man at Sherlock’s right hand is fucking his fist, while clenching his rim around Sherlock’s finger. The woman at Sherlock’s left hand is fingering her clit, using Sherlock’s digit. The woman riding Sherlock’s cock is also fingering her clit. The man fucking Sherlock’s arse is starting to pound into him faster.

Jim is taking it slow. He wants to be the last one to come. He issues commands to Sherlock by poking his fingers at the drugged man’s cheeks. When Sherlock feels the pokes, he licks faster, sucks harder. Jim is pleased.

Sherlock feels tender all over, but good.

The cock rider is the first to finish. She comes all over the wax on Sherlock’s body. When she climbs off the table, Sherlock is still hard.

The arse fucker comes next. He shoots his load into Sherlock for the second time today. He pulls out and smiles, enjoying the obscene sight of his ejaculate, dripping out of Sherlock’s debauched hole.

Sherlock whines and gyrates his hips. He hears someone snapping fingers in the air, and then feels a hand closing around his cock. Yes, that’s exactly what he wanted. The curled hand moves up and down his shaft. Satisfied, Sherlock moans around Jim’s cock.

The man at Sherlock’s right hand growls when he comes. He spills his seed on the floor. Then, he releases Sherlock’s finger.

The woman at Sherlock’s left hand guides three of his fingers into her wet pussy. She fucks herself on his fingers while she rubs her own clit, and then she squeals as she comes.

Jim leisurely fucks Sherlock’s willing mouth. He watches his cock disappearing into Sherlock’s reddened lips. He pulls back until only his cockhead is in, then he spits on his hand and rubs the spit onto his shaft, and then he pushes his whole cock back into Sherlock’s mouth. He pushes deep into Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock starts to choke, but he lets out a strangled moan instead. He is momentarily distracted by the hand stroking his cock.

Jim controls his advances, maintaining a slow rhythm for all of five minutes. Then, he begins ramming into Sherlock.

The hand at Sherlock’s cock is working him faster, and between that and the cock in his mouth, he struggles to breathe. Then, the cock in his mouth spasms and releases bitter, stringy fluid, which he swallows.

Jim pulls out. Cruelly, the hand around Sherlock’s cock lets go. Sherlock growls and pulls at his restraints.

Jim laughs.

Everyone walks away. Sherlock is left erect, frustrated, tied down, and alone in the room for two hours. At that point, he begins to come down from his high. He trembles, cock softening. He feels fatigued, dizzy and worthless. All of his muscles and joints are complaining.

Jim returns and whispers “zip” into Sherlock’s ear. Then, Sherlock feels a needle being jabbed into his neck. He falls under sedation.

When he wakes, he is inside a black body bag.


	5. The Cat Is Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene are left in the sex room -- tied down and running out of air.

Fourteen hours after Sherlock slips out of the sex room, Irene and John are dizzy. They are shallowly panting, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe in the airtight room. Irene’s field of vision is rocking slightly from side to side, like a pendulum. John is seeing spots.

Worse, Irene has become ineffably uncomfortable with the dildo inside her. She is grateful for the preparation over the last few days, but now she feels as though her pelvic region is on fire. A burning pain is radiating upwards into her abdomen.

She minutely wriggles her legs and twists her hips, but she feels fatigued, and the ropes knotted around her ankles are restricting her movements. She cannot find a more tolerable position. Or maybe it is impossible to find such a position -- ropes or no ropes -- because of how large the dildo is.

“John, it hurts,” she whines.

John hasn't peed all day. His body has become accustomed to infrequent urination, because his routine for the past month has included going to the loo only once every other day. Besides, Sherlock gives him just one or two cups of water with every meal. Distantly, it occurs to John that he hasn't had tea since before he was kidnapped.

The sheath remains dry and loosely clinging around John’s soft cock. Surprisingly (given how Irene is reacting to her own plugged hole), the nozzle in John’s arse has not been all that challenging to deal with. It’s much smaller than Irene’s dildo, of course. From time to time, John’s nozzle-cum-plug presses downwards, following the natural motion of intestinal contents being expelled. The wide part of the plug would then pinch John’s sphincter, but all he has to do is squeeze his muscles and push the plug back upwards, so the narrow part would rest snugly at his entrance.

“Could you… describe how it feels? Is it a sharp pain?” He asks. He blinks and sees stars twinkling around Irene.

“Ugh, not sharp. Not like a stabbing pain, but…" She groans, then continues, "a searing pain… at my groin."

John remembers seeing the enormous dildo in S’s hand earlier. The widest part was about 80% the size of a newborn baby’s head.

He closes his eyes. He still sees sparks behind his eyelids. "That thing is forcing your pelvis wide open. You're probably experiencing something like labour pains."

“Help me,” Irene grimaces. "It feels like the tip of the dildo is pressing against my cervix."

John clears his throat. “Maybe it would help if... uh, if you were aroused." He tilts his head, as though avoiding Irene's gaze, even though his eyes are still shut. "Not help with the pelvic pain, but it could help dilate your vaginal canal again... ease some of the pressure on your cervix.”

With her face contorted, Irene looks at John.

“Could you look at me, doctor?” She says slowly, keeping her voice as steady as she can.

John gradually turns his head towards her, and opens his eyes. She is clenching her jaw, and her forehead is creased.

“I’m going to need you to help me with that,” Irene manages through gritted teeth.

“With... what?”

“With getting aroused, if that's all we can do.”

John lightly dips the top of his head onto the pillow. His physical endurance is better than most people's, but his muscles are starting to feel like jelly.

“Throw that aside.” Irene means the pillow. “It’ll give you half a foot of room to move. Then you can use your mouth on me.”

John doesn't want to move. “Won’t he get angry if he comes back and we’ve changed something?”

“Ugh, John, please. I’m pretty sure I’d use up less oxygen if I weren't in this much discomfort.” Irene can feel her walls wrapped unnaturally around the dildo. Yes, she is in pain, but she can still bear it. John is not the only one who can endure. Outside, Irene had always been in shape, and now her body has been S's plaything for a year.

“All right, all right. Medical emergency.” He decides that he will give this reason later, when S inevitably questions them about the displaced pillow. Right now, he needs to help Irene.

He bites down on the pillow, then pulls it with his teeth, towards his left side. Then he lets go, moves his head back to his original position, bites down, and pulls the pillow leftwards again. He repeats this until the pillow slides of its own accord, off Irene’s hip and down the side of the table. Now Irene’s naked body is exposed to John, who is bent over it. He has about four extra inches of slack at each of his arms’ restraints.

Irene’s skin is clammy. John’s skin is sticky with sweat, too.

John dips his tongue into Irene’s navel, and flicks it. Irene moans immediately, loudly, and much too enthusiastically for the reaction to be completely genuine. John is not that good a lover. But Irene badly wants this to work, and she is willing her body to make it so.

Irene closes her eyes to get the world to stop spinning, but she still feels as though her head is bobbing on water. It is an unpleasant, nonetheless welcome distraction from her groin.

John licks wide stripes across Irene’s stomach. He plants kisses on her slick skin, occasionally sticking his tongue out to poke her. He laves her flat belly with his saliva, coating her as he makes his way slowly towards her right breast. He tugs at his bonds and shifts his head as far as the ropes allow, until his lips reach her right nipple. He closes his mouth over it in conquest.

“Yes,” Irene breathes out, eyes still closed.

John sucks the pink bud on the small, round breast.

“Suck louder, John. Let me hear you,” Irene says, voice low.

John slurps and moans. He sucks hard, almost hungrily. His mouth’s attentions cause the bud to firm up.

“Mmm,” Irene hums. With all her might, she focuses on the points of contact between her skin and John's mouth.

John sinks his teeth shallowly around her areola. His cock is now hardening inside its sheath.

“Ohhh, that’s good,” Irene exhales.

John bites. The spots in his vision multiply.

Irene whimpers, and then sighs, “Yes.”

John’s tongue continues lapping her nipple. He licks around it. He nibbles and kisses as much of her breast as he can reach. When Irene’s noises turn into regular, soft moans and purrs, John pulls back. He is completely hard now. His shortness of breath cannot be accounted for by the abundance of carbon dioxide in the room.

Irene opens her eyes, and holds John’s gaze. “That was exquisite, doctor.”

“So you feel better?” He consciously slows his breathing.

“Yes, thank you.” She gives him a small smile. Her pelvic bones still feel unnaturally pulled apart, but her fluids have increased the lubrication around the dildo, and her vaginal muscles have relaxed. She is also still light-headed, but currently this feels less of a major issue.

John stares blankly at Irene’s stomach, watching imaginary speckles dance.

“Are you all right, John?”

“Yes.” He looks at her face again. “I’m worried about the oxygen. And I’m starving.”

“I am, too.”

They are silent for a moment, until John asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Me too. Probably 24 hours ago now. Is this normal? Why didn’t we get breakfast?” John closes his eyes.

“Sometimes he forgets a meal here and there, especially when he’s excited about something -- possibly us, possibly his work.” Irene shuts her eyes, too. “And I rather think he doesn't eat much himself. But it is rare for him to forget. This is the first time you've missed a meal all month, yes?”

“Yeah, I think so. Unless I've been drugged for entire days.”

Not an impossibility, Irene thinks. “There was one time when he didn't feed me for three days as punishment,” she recalls. “He gave me water, though.”

“What did you do wrong?”

“I came when I wasn't supposed to. He fucked me silly during those three days, of course, and I wasn't allowed to come at all, or he’d withhold food longer.” (While Irene was speaking, John yawned quietly. Irene didn't see it.)

“You forgot to mention that before,” John says.

“What do you mean, before?”

“I think it was my second night. He made you tell me about the things he’s done to you, including punishments.” (It is Irene’s turn to yawn -- her body’s attempt to acquire more oxygen.) “I don’t remember you saying anything about withholding food,” John recounts.

“Ah, yes.” A corner of Irene’s mouth curls upwards. “I didn’t remember at the time. I was preoccupied by intense fucking from that Sybian.” She adds in a stage whisper, “I love that thing.”

John’s cock twitches.

Irene continues, “I’m sure I've left out a few more things. We’ve been together over a year, after all. There has been a lot of dominating and submitting in that time.” She quirks her mouth.

John thinks the use of the word “together” is odd.

“But anyway,” Irene goes on, “I don’t think this is unusual. He probably meant to have fed and fucked us by now. Maybe he’s inundated with work. I expect he’ll come in at three in the morning and wake us for playtime then.”

Minutes of silence ensue. Irene, who is feeling lethargic, soon succumbs to the stillness and falls asleep.

John concentrates on staying awake. He doesn’t want to lie across Irene. He thinks his torso will feel as heavy as a sack of spuds. He fights the impulse to drape himself over her, even if she has told him it would be fine. He remains in his awkward, bent position.

By midnight, John’s vision has morphed into shades of grey. His leg muscles are wobbly. Annoyingly, he is still half-hard. While Irene sleeps, he rubs his latex-covered groin against the side of the table. It provides a tiny bit of relief and a whole lot of frustration, so he stops.

An hour later, John is no longer able to hold himself up. He lowers his torso, so that he can rest his elbows near the edge of the table.

Eventually, he loses the strength to keep his eyes open; his eyelids are drooping involuntarily. He drops his chest across the final inch separating him from Irene’s abdomen. He slumps his head down the right side of her torso, and dozes off.

At half four, air vents begin to whir at the four bottom corners of the room. Neither John nor Irene is woken up by the sound.

John wakes before noon. He has morning wood.

Irene is squirming under him. “Sorry if I woke you,” she says. “It’s starting to get uncomfortable again.”

John groans as he lifts his torso off Irene. “Ugh, why can’t I just pull that monstrous thing out of you,” he mumbles sleepily, “and fuck you again?” He is complaining more to himself than to her. Muscles all over his body are aching. His empty stomach grumbles. He wants to eat, he wants to stretch, he wants to come, and he wants to expel the plug in his arse. It would be easy enough, because the plug is not too wide. He could probably squeeze it out of himself right now; he wonders if he should risk the punishment.

Irene is taken aback. “Well, that’s forward. You want to do me again?” If she weren't in too much discomfort, she'd be grinning.

John blinks, as his senses complete the process of coming online. “Yes,” he replies simply. There’s no point in answering any other way. “Hey, are you breathing better?”

Irene pays attention to her inhalations. “Why, yes.”

They take a minute to appreciate their fresh supply of oxygen.

“Do you think he’s been here?” John asks.

“Maybe not. I think he would have given us food.” Irene eyes John thoughtfully. “You like him, too. Don’t you?”

John squints. “Are you asking if I like him, as I like you? Or if I like him, as you like him?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” He pauses. “I can’t say I *like him* like him, but I’m… getting used to my… circumstances.”

“You mean waiting around for him to fuck you?”

He breathes in, then out. “Yes. God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. But… this situation, I guess... It’s strange. Being a sex slave isn't one of those things you ever consider, when you’re trying to picture your future. But now that I’m here...” He looks up at the gymnastic rings hanging from the ceiling, and at the shackles scattered across the wall on one side of the room.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” Irene prompts.

John looks back at her but doesn't respond.

“It’s not so bad, because he’s not so bad,” she answers herself. “There are worse masters. I’ve encountered some true sadists.”

John reflects. “I do miss being a doctor. It doesn’t have to be on the battlefield, but I wish I were still a doctor.”

“Speaking of which, could you help me again, with easing the pressure? This gigantic thing feels really tightly cramped up inside me.”

***

Hours later, the pain in Irene's pelvis is spreading to her lower back and her hips. She struggles against her restraints, yelling. She improves her situation by arching her back, but it is impossible to sustain such position for long.

John is helpless. Fortunately, after several minutes, Irene calms down. In John's opinion, she is carrying her burden with no lack of grace.

They are both famished, and breathing a little faster than normal. John is developing muscle pains from prolonged immobility, but he is saying not a word about it. The enema nozzle is causing him far less grief than the Drippy Dragon is obviously causing Irene. John thinks that if he could take on her suffering, he would.

"Talk to me," Irene pleads, seeking distraction. "How do your stitches feel?" She glances at his chest sutures.

“I've had them for two weeks, so I’m kind of used to them now. They’re fine, they don’t need dressings or bandages any more. Sometimes they feel prickly, but it passes. I’ll have them for three more months or longer,” he sighs.

“I still can’t believe he sliced you open to watch your heartbeat while he shagged you.”

John licks his lips. “What’s the worst he has done to you?”

Irene gives him a hollow chuckle. “Apart from this? Hmm… It isn't as creative as yours, but it stands out as my most intense punishment, worse than any beating. What he’d do was insert a peeled ginger root up my arse, and then leave it inside me for about half an hour. Do you know how that feels?”

“No,” John answers.

“It burns. It’s so irritating. I’d be howling, only three minutes in. I’d be tied down, of course. He would carve the ginger root into the shape of an arse plug, then put it inside me, cover it with a piece of cloth, and tape the cloth to my skin. That way, the plug won't come out. Then he would fuck me in my other hole, very slowly, torturously, while I’m crying my eyes and lungs out. I’d be naked, and he’d be kissing me everywhere he could reach, while continuously fucking me. He’d be so gentle, because he’d want to last for as long as the ginger root’s oils were having their way with me. He seemed to relish fucking me while I was in obvious pain.”

John’s cock, which has been semi-hard since last night, is getting harder. Shit. Why is this turning him on? “What did you do to deserve that?” he enquires.

“I tried to escape. I’d been here three weeks, and all I could think about was that I had to go back to Kate. So, one time, we were in the loo, and… You know how he straps your feet down onto the floor when you’re on the toilet?”

“Yeah?”

“Those straps and buckles weren't there before. At first, he just had a syringe in one hand, and a leash in the other. The syringe contained the sedative, and the leash was attached to my collar. He’d guard me as I went about my business. One time, I suddenly stood up and jumped forwards at him, and in the same swift motion, I turned the syringe around and pushed it into his arm. He quickly fell onto the floor; you know how his drugs work.”

John nods.

“I tried to open the door from the loo to the outside world, whatever the hell was out there. Maybe the door led to his bedroom, or maybe this room and the loo are in a remote, abandoned power complex, whatever. But I couldn’t open the door. There was some sort of mechanism.”

“Maybe it’s also voice activated, like this one.” He cocks his head towards the only door in the sex room.

“I never found out. I tried screaming, while he was knocked out. I don’t think anyone heard me. I don’t know if the loo is also soundproof like this room, or if there was just no-one outside at the time, in which case I’m just dreadfully unlucky. When he woke up, I was trembling in fear. If I could shout and not be heard, then he could kill me in here and probably get away with it. He figged me that same night, for the first time. He did it every day for a week. He always came inside me, after the oils had run their course. By then I’d be drained from wailing, and I’d just lay there as he pounded into me, hard. He’d pull out only after he’d gone limp, and then -- only then would he take the used-up ginger root out of me.”

John hisses inadvertently, from want of pressure or friction on his cock.

Irene ends her recollection, and snaps back into the present. “Was that a sympathetic hiss, doctor, or are your latex trousers feeling too tight?”

“Sorry, sorry.” John bows his head and looks away.

“It’s all right. From what I’ve seen, you could make a good dom. But you’re not aware that you have what it takes yet. It was enticing to you, wasn’t it? Fucking someone tenderly while they fell apart, teaching them a lesson for their own good?”

John doesn't respond. He’s still looking the other way, at Irene’s feet.

Irene changes the subject. “Have you tried escaping yet?”

“No,” he replies, turning to face her again. “I couldn't be sure I’d succeed, and I don’t want him catching me in a failed attempt.”

***

By dusk, Irene feels like she is being punched repeatedly in the abdomen.

“Should we worry now?” John asks. His vision spots and the dampness of his skin have returned. “We haven’t had food or water in maybe two whole days, assuming it’s night-time now. Of course, I could just be way too exhausted and sleepy.”

“No, I think it is night-time. I feel ready to turn in, too.” Irene wishes she'd fall asleep and not have to feel any part of her body. She shuts her eyes, which at least stops the room from swinging all around her.

“What if something has happened to him?”

“Then we will die in here,” she says, wistfully. She thinks of Kate.

Moments later, John starts, “I… bugger.”

“What is it?” Irene moves not one bit, not even to lift an eyelid.

“I need to take a piss.”

“Just go for it, I don’t mind.”

“But…”

Irene opens her eyes to peer at John, whose image is swaying. “Ah, I remember now. The enema.”

John purses his lips.

“Well, you could hold it in, or you could… hold it in at the other end.” Irene fails to suppress a giggle.

“Thanks, that’s brilliant,” John deadpans.

Less than an hour later, Irene drifts off to sleep.

John gives in and grants himself a licence to piss. When he blinks and sees sparkles, his oxygen-deprived brain assumes the sparkles are there to cheer him on as he urinates.

He exhales in relief, drawn-out and deep, despite the threat of carbon dioxide oversupply in the room. The release feels like a victory, and the long sigh is his way of celebrating.

Unfortunately, the satisfaction doesn't last long. John begins to feel his warm urine streaming up into his rectum and colon. He tenses.

However, apparently, the invasion feels good, and John has to trap a moan in his throat to avoid waking Irene.

The fluid pours slowly out of the nozzle, so it takes some time before the pouch is emptied. John fidgets while he’s being filled. His half-hard cock stiffens marginally. He can feel the pool of liquid warmth, low in his belly.

John would like to stretch his strained muscles. He imagines lying down on his back, on a bed. He imagines receiving a blow job (from an unknown mouth; whoever owns it doesn’t matter right now). With his mind already halfway to dreamland, John lowers his chest onto Irene’s stomach -- as far from her pelvis and as close to her breasts as possible -- and goes to sleep.

***

The next morning, Irene wakes up exasperated at the renewed, severe pain pulsing through her whole body from between her legs.

When John wakes up, his first thought is that he needs to void his distended bowels.

Twenty miles south of Baker Street, in the back seat of a Vauxhall Corsa, Sherlock wakes up in a body bag.


	6. Sherlock Is Free

Sherlock’s hands roam the lining of the thick, black plastic in search of the zip. When he finds the small, flat back of the fastener near his head, he picks at it with a fingernail until he can drag it. Slowly, he opens the body bag, and pokes his head out. His curls are sticking to his sweaty forehead. Then, his shoulders emerge from the plastic, followed by his arms and his torso. He is dressed in the suit ensemble that he wore on Friday, and is perspiring all over.

Sherlock finds himself in the back seat of his car. He cautiously bends and unwinds his muscles, from his stiff neck to his bruised legs, which are still inside the body bag.

His arse is sore. He winces at the memory of being fucked by a machine all night.

His cock is limp, though he retains the sensation of a denied orgasm -- the feeling of wanting to finish. At the moment, however, he has no desire to be sexually stimulated.

They bathed him. That was smart. Sherlock expects to find no evidence on himself -- no bodily fluids from his rapists, perhaps not even a single strand of hair.

It appears Sherlock’s kidnappers weren’t interested in stealing from him, either. His thousand-pound Tissot Heritage Navigator clasps his left wrist. The watch was a graduation present from Mycroft.

Sherlock remembers he’s been dodging his brother for over a week. It hasn’t been difficult; Mycroft must be busy.

Sherlock takes off his dark olive suit jacket and drops it on the seat, beside himself. Then, he manoeuvres his legs out of the black plastic. With his polished shoes, he kicks the body bag into a bunch on the floor, behind the front passenger seat. He runs his fingers through his hair, sweeping clumps of it off his damp brow.

He feels a short, thin strip of metal grazing his scalp. He yanks his right hand back down in front of him, and stares at the white gold ring on his finger.

Jewellery.

Heated rage rises within him. He pulls the ring off and tosses it towards the body bag. Then, he gets out of the car and strides to open the door on the driver’s side. His Belstaff coat is on the driver’s seat, neatly folded. On top of it is a typewritten note.

_Remove the ring, Sherlock._   
_Any time you want to play._   
_And we’ll come for you x._

Sherlock’s heart sinks. It’s not over; they are going to be watching him. They must be watching him now. He looks around, but sees nothing peculiar in the dusty car park, which is vacant apart from his own vehicle. He calculates that it must be Sunday; no construction workers would be on site.

There are apartment buildings in the next block, but the windows are too many and too far for Sherlock to see into. In the early light of the cool morning, there are a handful of joggers, dog walkers, shoppers and churchgoers on the streets. Suburban. Oblivious. Sherlock sighs, reopens the door to the back seat, fishes for the white gold band on the floor, and wears it again on his right ring finger.

Finally, he sits behind the steering wheel. His seat belt is secure. His coat is in the back, next to his suit jacket. The note is on the front passenger seat, taunting him from the corner of his vision. He decidedly ignores his aching bottom, takes a deep breath, and begins to drive back home.

***

John helps Irene relax for the third time this weekend. It’s not entirely selfless; her moans and her skin cause his prick to become fully erect once again.

“I’m sorry I can’t return the favour, John,” Irene says when she thanks him.

Around mid-morning, gas fills the sex room. Irene and John beam at each other before slipping into sedation.

Sherlock has changed into a chocolate brown short-sleeved shirt and matching knee-length trousers. He has applied salve onto his wounds, and put plasters on them. The abhorrent ring is off his finger, because he’s confident that no-one can see into his upstairs rooms. The sex room and the adjacent loo are windowless, and the curtains in the lab are drawn shut.

While waiting for the gas to dissipate, Sherlock silently thanks his younger self for setting up automatic air circulation units in the sex room. He had scheduled them to run every morning at half four. The glass cells have their own air circulation systems, of course. But he almost didn’t build the units in the main area of the sex room. He realises now how much he doesn’t want his slaves to die. He has grown fond of them. Quite.

When ample time has passed, Sherlock enters the sex room, carrying two paper bags of Chinese takeaway. He leaves them on the table, in the space between Irene’s arms, past her head. Then, he gets to work, starting with untying the ropes around his pets’ wrists and ankles. He doesn’t move their bodies; John remains slumped over Irene.

Sherlock places the ropes in a drawer under the bondage table. From the same drawer, he takes out a chain. He uses it to bind Irene’s right ankle to a steel loop at a corner of the table. Then, he stands at Irene’s right side and carefully pulls the extra-large dildo out of her.

She stirs and whispers a groan when the widest part passes through her folds. Sherlock glances at her face, which is clearly registering discomfort. He knows she won’t wake from this. She won’t remember either, not even as a dream, thanks to Sherlock's sedative.

When the dragon cock is out of Irene, Sherlock eyes her vagina, red and swollen. He decides not to touch it for a week.

Irene is his, and he takes care of his things. He doesn’t hurt her when it’s not necessary. He doesn’t make her wear a permanent collar, because he needs no symbolic reminder. He doesn’t hide his face from her. He doesn’t play mind games. What he has with Irene is transparent ownership. Sherlock believes there is only one hindrance to her complete submission to him: Kate.

Sherlock walks around to the other side of the table. He helps John up to a standing position facing him, and then bends down to drape John’s body across his shoulders. Then, he stands and takes John to the loo in a fireman’s lift. He lays John on his side in the bathtub.

He returns to the sex room to grab the Drippy Dragon, as well as an enema kit from one of the drawers. Once he’s back in the lav, he washes the dildo in the sink.

Sherlock sits on the side of the tub, with his feet in. He leans forwards and pulls the waistband of John’s latex shorts downwards. When the material clears John’s pelvis, Sherlock removes John’s mostly hard cock from its sheath. He smirks and strokes it several times. It twitches in his hand. Sherlock likes that, so he tugs at the cock some more. He stops after pre-come drips from John’s slit.

Sherlock takes the enema nozzle out of John’s arse. As soon as he does, urine flows out. The expulsion makes Sherlock wonder if infants defecate in their sleep.

Sherlock catches himself comparing John to a baby.

He continues dragging the latex shorts down John’s legs and off, after which he turns John onto his back. Then, he goes downstairs to make chamomile tea. He returns with a small pitcher of the tea, highly diluted in water. He uses this solution to give John a cleansing enema.

John is Sherlock’s, and Sherlock takes care of his things.

When the tea enema is completed and John is washed clean, Sherlock carries him back into the room. He puts him in the same position as before, slouched over Irene’s abdomen. Sherlock takes another chain from a drawer, and then crouches on the floor to link John’s left ankle to a foot of the table. Before he stands, he strokes John’s cock a few times. Pre-come coats his fingers.

Sherlock stands. He has one final task.

***

An hour later, the captives wake.

“Oh, thank god,” Irene says loudly. When John gives her a questioning look, she adds, “It’s out of me!” The pain has ebbed from her back and hips, receding into just her pelvis.

John lifts his body off Irene and straightens up. Hang on, he can straighten up? He can, yes. He savours unflexing his back. His muscles hurt, but the pain is welcome. He stretches his unrestrained arms, as high above his head as he can reach.

“We have food.” John smells egg fried rice in the air. His lips form the tired, grateful smile of someone who has just been rescued.

Irene sits up on the table. Her wrists are free of ropes, but she notes, “I have one ankle in chains.”

“Same here. Don’t care. Food first.” John is already scooping out the contents of one takeaway pack.

“And you’re naked,” Irene says, eyes fixed on John’s hard, leaking cock.

“Right. Eat.” John angles his chin towards the other paper bag. Chopsticks in hand, he bites into his first piece of orange chicken.

“Are you empty... in the back?” Irene gingerly twists her torso and claims a styrofoam container from the paper bag behind her. She opens the container, and inhales the aroma of stir-fried beef and broccoli. On the inside of the styrofoam cover, condensation drips.

John nods.

“Were you awake for that?” Irene asks, and then shoves one whole miniature tree into her mouth.

John shakes his head.

They eat the rest of their meal in companionable silence. Between them, they drink three medium bottles of water.

When they are finished, they put the chopsticks, tissues and empty containers back in the paper bags. John lowers the bags onto the floor beside the table, to his right. Then, he sits on the floor, still facing the table.

He looks up at Irene and notices a surveillance camera on the ceiling. It’s new. He clears his throat, which catches Irene’s attention. When she looks at him, he points to the camera.

She smiles when she sees it. “I’m surprised it took him this long to install that.”

Sherlock is sitting in his lab, watching a small monitor. Beside the monitor are speakers; he can hear John and Irene. On the desk in front of Sherlock, there are empty styrofoam containers, tissues, a paper bag, a chopstick, a cuppa and his mobile. He is twirling the other chopstick in his fingers.

Sherlock is surrounded by incomplete engines and other mechanical contraptions, as well as random beakers, flasks and other glassware. He hasn't performed any experiments in some time.

This weekend, Sherlock was kidnapped and toyed with, but now he is home. He’s all right, except for minor wounds that he can hide. His pets are all right, too.

He trades his twirling stick for his phone, and writes an email to his boss. He would like to take the week off. If this is not possible, then he will be at work promptly on Tuesday morning. Either way, he won’t come in tomorrow.

He sends the email, then places his phone back on the desk. He presses a button, activating a microphone. “John,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

John looks up at the camera, which makes no sense because that’s not where the speaker is. The phrase “voice of god” floats across his mind. He pushes it away. “Uh, yes? Sir?” He remembers to add the honorific.

“Touch yourself.”

John has no objection to this. He looks at his hard prick and spreads his legs on the floor. He licks his lips as he wraps a palm around his shaft. His eyes close immediately upon contact. He withdraws his palm, spits on it, and rubs it up and down his erection. He moans.

Irene is silent, watching.

John has been at least semi-hard for almost two days straight. He quickens his pace.

“Slower,” Sherlock commands, and John whimpers but obeys.

John opens his eyes. He looks up at the camera with a pleading expression.

Sherlock likes the sounds and faces John is making. John is his, and John is enjoying this. Sherlock is pleased. His pants feel tighter.

Sherlock unzips his trousers and pushes the waistband of his pants down a few inches. He takes his hardening cock out, and strokes it gently. “A little slower, John.” He wants John to match his own speed. “Yes, that’s it. Good,” he praises. John’s face is scrunched up.

Sherlock wants John to come, but he wants John to come at the same time he does. This is the only way Sherlock can relieve himself. Apparently, John can crowd out -- even temporarily -- the memory of Sherlock’s repugnant weekend.

“All right, go a little faster. Just a bit.”

John detects a slight breathlessness in the voice. He shuts his eyes, and increases the pace of his stroking. With his free hand, he fondles his balls. He groans.

Without meaning to, Sherlock lets out a moan in response. “Okay, quickly now, but don’t come until I say.”

John whines. “Yes, sir,” he croaks. His pre-come glistens all around the head of his cock. It makes Irene lick her lips, but John doesn't see this.

Sherlock’s cock is sticky with a mix of his own pre-come and saliva. He is getting close. “John, why are you here?” Sherlock asks, voice breaking as he continues stroking himself.

John gazes up at the camera. He doesn’t understand what S is asking him. “Because you kidnapped me” seems like the wrong answer. He looks down at his fist, the one his cock is thrusting into, and then up at Irene. He realises how wanton he must appear, sitting on the floor, naked, with his legs spread open. Without stopping the motion of his hand, he looks back at the camera. It occurs to him that he is putting on a show for an audience he can’t see. He is putting on a pornographic show, because S told him to. “Because you own me,” he finally replies.

Sherlock grunts. He’s on the brink. “Now, John!”

They shoot their release together.

***

Shortly before noon on the following day, Sherlock is in bed. He is reading his boss’s email, received hours ago. He may take the week off, as long as he makes alternative arrangements for his appointments, et cetera.

Sherlock is about to put his phone back on the bedside table, when it beeps. He reads the text message.

_Hello, sexy._   
_Go to work tomorrow._   
_Or I’m going to be so naughty x._

The message is from a blocked number. Sherlock wants to scream. Instead, he writes another email to his boss, saying he has changed his mind about the week off.


End file.
